Save My Place
by Carrieosity
Summary: When tragedy tears Cas and his twin apart, Cas doesn't know how to go on without him - so he doesn't. He exchanges his future for the one his twin should have had, resolving to become the man his brother never had the chance to be. Dean knows all about walls of guilt and shame, but he's not sure Cas wants help tearing those walls down. (College AU)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_ _I sketched out this plot a while ago, and I hope it goes according to plan now that I'm putting it into actual words. It's likely to be fairly long, but I'm a little inexperienced in estimating that right now. Give me time. :)_

 _Two years prior_

The road glistened in the headlights of the car as they swept around the curve. In the summer warmth, the lightly falling rain felt both a blessing and a threat, removing the uncomfortable edge from the heat while adding a muggy thickness to the air. Not enough rain had fallen yet to create deep puddles; the pavement shimmered like polished stone. Castiel smirked slightly, enjoying the poetic thought but knowing that it would have fled his mind by the time he was able to lay hand to pen and paper.

"Tell me again why we're going to this thing?" Jimmy sighed from the passenger seat. "I don't even know these people. They're just going to spend all night calling me by your name and starting conversations about concerts and parties I never attended." He slouched further down and glared out the window. "Not to mention that these parties are always packed shoulder to shoulder, and I have no desire to stand out in the rain just to be able to draw a good breath."

"We're going because you _don't_ know these people," Castiel grinned at his twin brother. "You don't seem to know _any_ people, or at least not any that are going to drag you out for some fun once in a while. Come on; your last paper of the year is in, and in a few days we'll be heading back home for another summer of parents, church, and family values." He rolled his eyes. "Last chance to live it up for a few months. I have your best interests at heart."

Jimmy grimaced. "My best interests are back in our climate-controlled room. I don't even drink, Cassie. I'm just going to wind up standing near any open window I can find, smiling and nodding like a freaking bobble-head doll. I know I'll be driving us home after, but is there any hope we'll be leaving before I'll have to scrape you off the floor?"

"Oh, it might not be that bad. Maybe I'll meet somebody, and you can drag me out of a bed, instead." Castiel gave an exaggeratedly feral grin and salacious wink as Jimmy groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. It wouldn't be the first time such an event had happened, and Jimmy was still trying to forget the singularly scarring time that he had opened the door and discovered his brother entwined with a few more companions than he had anticipated. Jimmy didn't honestly believe that situation had been as lewd as the scene implied; it was more likely that varying levels of intoxication from their host's assortment of "party favors" had simply led to a lethargic group cuddle. Certainly, nobody in the room had seemed capable of anything more energetic than uncoordinated hair petting.

Castiel expended great effort toward presenting himself as reckless, Jimmy knew. He wasn't sure whether it was a reactionary statement against their conservative upbringing, part of an "artist's image" that his brother was exploring, or just a way to distinguish himself from his quieter twin. Jimmy could sense an edge around the mask, though; he didn't think the image went deeper than the skin that Castiel decorated with a handful of tattoos he'd designed himself.

"I can't remember which of these houses belongs to Andy's cousin," Castiel said, squinting through the windshield. The humidity and heat were causing the glass to fog slightly, and the beat-up car's old fan system was doing a poor job clearing the condensation. "None of them seem lit up enough for a party. Shit, it's hard to see out here…"

"Cassie, look out!" A deer, eyes glowing in the headlights, jumped out of the shadows beside the road, then froze. Castiel gasped, hitting the brakes, and felt the tires spin on the damp, slick pavement. A heartbeat stretched into years as he stared wide-eyed at the spellbound animal growing large in the windshield. There was no way the car would stop in time, he knew. He desperately cranked the steering wheel to the left, praying the deer would stay where it was. The car turned, slipped, spun; the world outside flew past his vision, too quickly to focus. They were sliding…the wheels caught the edge of the pavement, and his side window came crashing into his temple. There was noise…warmth…the feeling of vertigo…and blackness.

* * *

Flashing lights. The sound of a siren in the distance, approaching. Distorted voices on radios. Castiel couldn't make sense of any one thing, so he let them all wash through his hazy consciousness without attempting to process them.

 _"Sir, can you hear…"_

Yes, he thought, without trying to communicate the answer.

 _"Hey, bring me that, I can't quite…"_

He felt hands on his shoulders, though he didn't remember his car door opening. A tugging, shearing sensation, and his seatbelt ceased to hold him in place. Something, maybe arms, stopped him from falling…upward? No, he was upside down.

 _"Get his legs…"_

Cas was carried through the air, passively allowing his limbs to be manipulated onto a firm surface. His eyelids were thumbed open, and a light shone into his eyes. Words were spoken to him, but they might as well have been a collection of meaningless noises for all that he was able to interpret them.

 _"I need some help over here – another…"_

He was moving again, head swimming and stomach dropping unpleasantly as he was lifted into somewhere brighter and louder. A door slammed nearby, and a siren much closer began to wail as he felt the world rumble and he slid again into unconsciousness.

* * *

The next time Castiel woke, he was in a darkened room, lying in what he knew immediately was a hospital bed. Bandages covered his forehead, neck, and left arm, and a moment later, he felt a surge of powerful nausea surge through his body. Before he had time to panic, a white-clad figure appeared beside his bed. They were holding a curved plastic bowl, into which he promptly vomited.

"Easy, easy," the woman said softly. "Head injuries will do that. We gave you something to help with it, but they're not miracle drugs." She handed Castiel a tiny cup of water to rinse his mouth, then went to empty the basin. When she returned, she carried a clipboard and pencil.

"So, do you remember what happened? Why you're here?" Castiel gazed at her. He could remember lights and sounds, but there were gaps filled with emptiness in his mind. He had the sense that he didn't really want to scratch at them.

"Okay, that's normal. Your skull took a beating, so memory loss isn't unusual. You were in a car accident; do you remember that?" She tilted her head expectantly, clearly wanting him to come into the full recollection on his own rather than explaining.

Castiel tried. He remembered driving…a party. Had he been at a party? He narrowed his eyes, head starting to ache with the effort of use. The nurse was patiently waiting for him to speak, but his mouth seemed unwilling to cooperate. Steeling himself against the headache, he shook his head slightly.

"Well, don't worry. The doctor says you've got a concussion, but there's no other major damage. You were very lucky, considering…" She cut herself off with a sudden cringe, so quick Castiel might have imagined it. He wondered what he wasn't being told. Was she downplaying his injuries? He glanced over his body again, looking for evidence of more damage, but saw nothing obvious.

"So is there anything you need?" He gazed silently at the nurse, and she shrugged. "Okay, then. You can push the button if you change your mind, and we'll just come check on you if you can't talk into the speaker." She stared at him a moment longer, frowning a bit in an expression he couldn't read, before she left the room. Castiel closed his eyes and fought down the pain in his head until he could drift back to sleep.

It was hours later, by the light coming through his window, when Castiel woke to the sound of tense voices in his room. An authoritative sounding woman was quietly but sternly reprimanding, while other voices were louder with emotion and worry.

"– my _son!_ I want the neurologist here right –"

"– must not disturb him, his concussion –"

"– need to tell him about Jimmy, but how – "

"– memory loss, and the shock –"

"Mom?"

The noise in the room, other than the beep of his monitors, suddenly cut off as though a song had ended with the drop of a conductor's baton. Three sets of eyes flew to Castiel, staring with concern. As the stethoscope-wearing woman moved to his side and took his jaw in her hand to peer into his face, he noticed that his parent's expressions were grave. His mother had obviously been crying, and not lightly; the only traces of her usual impeccable makeup lay in creases below her red-rimmed eyes. His father looked far older than Castiel had ever seen him.

"I'm Doctor Mills, Mr. Novak. I'm your on-call doctor tonight, and I just need to examine you before I leave you to your parents, who are going to _stay calm_ , okay? You've had a pretty bad shake-up, and you need to _rest_ so you can get better." Doctor Mills kept glancing at his parents while she spoke, frowning pointedly. "Now, how's your head this afternoon?"

Castiel considered. The pain was dimmed, and he could almost begin to feel his thoughts coalesce into understanding, but he still felt a strange numbness covering everything. He felt afraid of what lay below it, though he couldn't place his finger on why. He realized that everyone in the room was staring at him, and he remembered that the doctor had asked him a question. I should say something, he thought, but his brain and his voice were apparently still not on speaking terms.

"Why isn't he answering?" his mother hissed, pale and terrified-looking. His father gripped her around the shoulders with his arm, but he looked equally unsettled.

"Sometimes this happens as a result of trauma," Doctor Mills said gently, lifting the bandages around Castiel's head to check his wounds. "Mr. Novak, it's all right," she continued, compassionately addressing herself directly to him despite his inability to communicate with her. "There's nothing wrong with your vocal cords, and the scans we've done have shown no trauma to your brain. The issue you're experiencing is likely emotional, not physiological. You shouldn't worry about that, anyway. If it persists, after you give yourself time to recover, a counselor can help work with you."

She replaced his bandages and stood, preparing to leave. His parents glanced quickly between each other, appearing even more alarmed. "Doctor," his father said. "I don't…what should…" He wrung his hands slightly, eyes flitting from Castiel to the doctor and back. Castiel felt his blanket of detachment tremble slightly, and he had the urge to feign sleep – anything to avoid whatever was making his father so anxious.

The doctor paused, thinking. "Your son is healing," she finally said. "You can talk with him, but if he becomes agitated, we may have to sedate him, and I'd rather not do that. You know him best. If the holes in his memory will upset him more than the truth, then…you should fill in the holes. But gently." She sighed. "If you'd like me to send up our counselor, I can do that."

"I can talk to my son," Castiel's mother said firmly. She strode to the side of his bed, lifting his hand in both of hers. Castiel gazed into his mother's grief-filled face, filled with apprehension. He heard the doctor leave, and his father approached on the other side of the bed.

"Castiel, why can't you answer me?" his mother began, but his father shook his head determinedly, and she sighed. "It's okay. We were so scared, Castiel. When the hospital called, they wouldn't give us many details, just that it was serious. They said you don't remember what happened, but do you remember anything? Oh, how can you tell me what you do or don't remember?" She drooped in frustration.

"Son." His father regarded him for a moment, a thousand emotions showing. "You were driving the car, and you swerved. The police said there might have been an animal. Do you remember that?"

Castiel thought. _Glowing eyes. Graceful neck_. He nodded.

"Okay. Okay, then. The car slid, with the rain on the road. You rolled into the ditch next to the road. Can you remember?"

 _Spinning, flashing. The sound of tires squealing, the feeling of flying._ Another nod. He felt his heart begin to race with the recollection, delayed adrenaline hitting his system.

His mother squeezed his hand, and he noticed tears begin to trickle. There was more, and it was much worse. The most horrible suspicion entered his mind. His memory was hazy, but he knew he would not have been alone in the car, wouldn't have been going to the party by himself.

He struggled with his mouth, trying to force it into action. He didn't want to know, but he _needed_ to know. His twin had been with him, and if his parents were here and Jimmy was not, then it either meant that Jimmy had escaped unscathed, or…he swallowed hard. With immense effort, he swallowed and croaked, "Jimmy?"

In the hush that followed, the bleakness in his parents' faces told him everything he never wanted to know, and Castiel's life shattered.


	2. Chapter 2

_Now_

"Man, I am just not going to make it through this economics class." Sam huffed a dramatic sigh and flopped backwards onto his bed. On the loft bunk above him, his roommate Kevin made sympathetic noises and flailed a hand over the edge in an exhausted parody of a comforting pat. Dean leaned against the wall of the bedroom and rolled his eyes fondly at his little brother's theatrics.

"Only been a couple of weeks, and your definition of 'fail' is a little cracked," he said with a smirk. "It's probably just that this is the first time in your academic life that you've actually had to use that big brain of yours, rather than just catching straight As by showing up and opening your mouth. Had to happen eventually, didn't it?"

Sam mumbled something that sounded like "shut up" as he rolled onto his stomach and made a grab for the economics text he'd tossed to the floor. It did look intimidating, and Dean was silently grateful that his own program didn't require it. Neither did Sam's, of course; the big nerd just thought it would be useful and interesting, so he was taking it as an elective. Naturally, that meant he was treating the class just as seriously as he was every one of his required courses. Sam was only a freshman, but he was a dedicated student with big plans for a future law degree and a lifetime of books and research.

"Well, you wouldn't want it to be too easy," Dean teased, reaching for the book and sliding it within reach of his brother's hand. "You want to feel like you're getting your money's worth. Well, the university's money, anyway, since they're floating you the tuition. Point still stands."

"But the professor wants us all dead, Dean. It's the only explanation. There's a project due practically every other week, and they're not small things. I'm not sure there are enough hours in the week to get everything done that we have to do."

"You'll manage." Dean knew his brother was exaggerating, but he was indulging him. Hearing Sam groan over school difficulties was actually a refreshing change from their historic interactions, when Dean would sigh in frustration with his studies and Sam would encourage him while breezing through his own classes. Dean hadn't been in school at the same time as Sam for several years, but he felt a slightly selfish satisfaction at the role switch. The intervening years had profoundly shaped Dean, erasing the brittle edges of his former "why bother" attitude toward education, leaving behind the powerful drive to prove he was more than the slow-witted jackass he secretly feared being.

Those years had shaped him in other, less pleasant, ways, as well. He was working on that.

"Survival of the fittest," drawled a voice from other adjoining room of Sam's suite. Dean had assumed the room was empty, that its two residents were in class, but Ash had apparently been sleeping the day away in a huddle of blankets in the corner. He now emerged, looking decidedly hungover, yet inserting himself into the conversation as though he'd been present from the start. Stretching his arms, Ash pushed himself to his feet and strolled to the suite's bathroom to splash water on his face. "Ugh, what time is it?"

"Almost eight, dude. You missed dinner," said Sam with a yawn. "Not to mention your classes. You are taking classes, right? I haven't seen you awake during the day all week."

"The joy of self-directed, online courses, my friend." Ash flashed a quick smile and turned to his desk, clicking a few buttons on his computer keyboard. "Lets me work when the mood is right. Daylight drains my brain."

The banter between the first-year roommates continued, as they groaned over their professors and homework. Dean let the cadence of the talk wash over him without paying much attention to the actual words, until Kevin, slightly disgruntled by the lack of either commiseration or sympathy, huffed and frowned at him. "Why are you even here, old man? You don't even live on campus. Don't you have a place of your own to go?" Sam glared at Kevin, but Dean recognized the jealousy in the jab – Kevin was a private person, disliking the communal living arrangements of the residence hall – and he knew it wasn't meant personally. Besides, he had been feeding himself too many similar sentiments, with much more sneering bluntness, to be offended by Kevin's remark.

"Yeah, but it's too fun to listen to you guys complain, and it keeps things in perspective for me," he joked. "Couple more years, I'll be in front of a classroom of doofs like you, listening to them spew this whiny crap. And I bet they'll listen to this 'old man' more than they'll listen to you, baby face." Kevin made a rude noise in response.

Truthfully, even though Dean felt easy hanging around Sam and his friends, as he had for many of the years when he had been too wrapped up in work and self-imposed obligations to maintain much of his own social circle, now it was underpinned with the simmering self-consciousness he felt almost all the time. At twenty-five years of age, he was far from the oldest undergraduate student in his program, but he had seen too much, done too much, and been left feeling far older than he was. He had never really expected to go to college at all. An impulsive decision born of the need to run away from the overwhelming sense of familial duty that he'd carried from his earliest memory had led to an army enlistment on his eighteenth birthday, shocking everyone. In some ways, the subsequent tours through Afghanistan had at first almost felt like a relief; they were brutally hard, but the weight of decision-making had been lifted. He listened and obeyed, and he hadn't been required to think.

There had also been Benny, his commanding officer. Benny, who'd seen through the cocky grins and friendly sarcasm to the pool of self-loathing in which Dean fought to keep afloat, and who had not simply pulled him free but had patiently taught him how to swim for shore when he found himself sinking again. In the lowest, most nightmarish periods of Dean's deployment, Benny had been the one who stayed with him, who had sat with him in the dark and listened as he broke apart, then reassembled him with gentle words, delivered sparingly in his soft Cajun accent. "We've all been there, brother," he'd said when Dean tried to insist he didn't need the support. "I'll help you, and you can just pass it on to somebody else."

Benny was the main reason, perhaps the _only_ reason, Dean had chosen to use the Army's funding to do something more than return to his home town and take up permanent residence on the bar stool his father had finally vacated for an urn. When Benny had said Dean had a talent for guiding the younger soldiers, teaching and mentoring them, Dean could almost believe it. Now when he wrote to Benny and told him about how he was preparing to "pass the help on" to high school history students, he could almost hear the other man's pleased chuckle in the emails he received back.

But then there were days like today, when all of those affirmations and supportive words wouldn't be enough. Dean's Modern History professor had spent today's lecture talking about current military conflicts, and, as the teacher had done since he had learned Dean was a veteran, he had eagerly peppered him with appeals for insights and anecdotes from Dean's personal experiences. The professor was a good guy, and Dean knew he meant well, but dragging up those memories usually meant painful triggers and another night of avoiding sleep to escape nightmares. Right now, sprawling in a corner of his brother's room and listening to trivial bickering provided an escape from his own thoughts, the safest coping method Dean had at the moment.

Of course, the reprieve couldn't last all night. Ash might have been a nocturnal creature, but Sam wasn't, and he had an early sociology class in the morning. The last thing Dean wanted was for his own personal issues to impact his brother's studies, and he knew that Sam would probably insist on staying up with him, fighting back his yawns, if he knew about the anxieties Dean was hiding. Rather than risk becoming an object of his brother's concern, Dean slapped on a grin, made a joke about bedtime stories and stuffed animals, and said his good nights before heading out. Kevin was already asleep when the door closed behind him.

It was late by then, but not _that_ late. Dean sighed, knowing that he couldn't face going back to his empty, quiet apartment and the cacophony of his own thoughts yet. The library was closed, and bars were dangerous territory when he was feeling like this; he'd been tempted down that road before, and a few too-close glimpses of the direction it might lead had provided Dean with all the motivation he needed to steer clear as much as he could. He rolled his shoulders and felt his steps drag as he walked down the hallway toward the residence hall's exit.

As he approached the door, he heard music playing in a closed communal room to his right. Not a radio – it was the piano he'd noticed in the front lounge. Someone was playing quietly, and Dean stopped to listen.

He considered the idea that it was a music major doing a little late practicing, but it was apparent to his ear that this was something less structured. The player was improvising, drifting through melancholy phrases aimlessly but with obvious ability. It was unpolished, raw, but compelling all the same; Dean found himself absorbed in following the lines, waiting to see where they would lead. The music seemed to be searching, seeking resolution but not finding it. Sometimes fragments of familiar tunes, buried alongside other motifs, would sneak through, but there was nothing that Dean's mind could grab and anticipate. He stood still in the hallway, unable to move on without the resolution denied to him by the haunting melodies.

He really was not meant to be here. Not only was it against the hall's policy for an outside guest to hang around after hours without the company of a resident student, but now Dean felt as though he was spying on something more personal. He had no problem lurking outside the practice rooms or recital halls of the music department, listening to students rehearse; he'd done that before, when he'd needed to escape his own mind (with the bonus that he would occasionally stumble upon free food following whatever concerts or recitals were happening in the building). This was different. Whoever was playing was not practicing for a public performance; it felt personal. Listening was an intrusion. Dean felt a pang of guilt, but he couldn't force himself to take the remaining steps out of the building.

 _I'll leave at the next pause_ , he told himself, stepping back into the shadows beside the doorframe. There was a small couch there by the wall, and Dean cautiously settled himself into it, avoiding any noises that would draw detection from either the player or any roaming night security. He closed his eyes, floating in the sounds, telling himself that he would feel embarrassed later, but that right now he would let himself be grateful for the diversion. There were no landmines, metaphorical or otherwise, in this moment. He could rest his mind.

And then the pianist seamlessly segued into a familiar introduction, and Dean felt his heart stutter. Without words, the piano sang, and Dean heard his mother's voice.

 _Hey Jude, don't make it bad…Take a sad song and make it better._

Visions of soft, loose blonde hair filled his head; he felt the gentle trace of her hands on his cheek, felt himself being rocked back and forth in her arms. It was a memory he'd all but forgotten, covered over with years of stoic duty and powering through pain. _Mom._ He hadn't let himself really miss her in forever, feeling that he couldn't afford the moments of vulnerability doing so would bring.

But he was caught off guard now, already in the grip of the weakness that had been brought on by other painful triggers, and there was no fighting the surge of emotions that flooded his body. He didn't gasp out loud, but it was a near thing, and he felt pressure behind his eyes as the song carried him into his lost childhood. Dean surrendered.

 _And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain; don't carry the world upon your shoulders._

When the song ended, Dean felt drained. The dying echoes carried away the tension that had been building in his neck and shoulders since that afternoon, and if his cheeks were damp, they had not been tears of anger or regret. With a start, he realized that the piano player had not begun another song; the room was now silent. Dean had a horrified vision of the door opening, being caught lurking in the darkness, and he propelled himself off the couch and toward the door as quickly and silently as he could manage.

That night he had no dreams at all that he could remember.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean could easily have made a habit of stopping by Sam's residence hall every evening, operating under the guise of being a caring, if somewhat overinvolved, big brother, while actually playing the part of private audience of one to his anonymous pianist. He could have done that, but he fought the urge. For one thing, they weren't concerts, and it felt wrong to eavesdrop on someone's personal playing like that. Was there such as thing as a "Listening Tom"? If there was, that was what Dean was doing, and it didn't sit right in his stomach.

For another thing, whoever was playing didn't play _every_ night. Dean clamped down hard on the disappointment he felt on nights when the hall lounge was silent.

But it was okay; he was doing fine, and he didn't _need_ the distraction with that kind of regularity. Most of the time, actually, he felt pretty damn good. He sent silent thanks to Benny and the other commanding officers who had drilled into his head the skills and tenacity he needed in order to buckle down and do hard work when the voices in his head screamed his inferiority. Maybe he wasn't a natural student like Sam, but by God, he was stubborn.

Even so, even when he wasn't actively fighting off nightmares, Dean felt a low-level itch much of the time. Maybe it came from those incessant mental critics, whose voices sounded remarkably like his father when they didn't sound like Dean's own voice. Maybe it came from the sense of being "too old" for this, enviously watching the easy camaraderie between Sam and his friends and wishing he could feel as relaxed as they seemed to be. He wasn't sure whether his shoulders had fully unknotted in years.

 _"Sam's doing fine, you're doing fine. Why do you think you're still so anxious?"_

 _"I don't know. Maybe I'm just used to it."_

 _"Not everything is a war, Dean. You can't live your life on guard."_

Dean's counselor was good at getting to the root of problems, but knowing the issue and fixing it were two different things. All the meditation practice and breathing exercises in the world couldn't break through what he'd spent years cementing in place.

So he rationalized and he rationed, saving his longer visits with Sam for the evenings when the itch was the strongest, making excuses to himself as he subtly checked his watch to time his exits for the hours he'd determined were most likely to coincide with the soothing music that worked such wonders on his mind. "It's not like that's a dedicated practice room or somebody's personal space," he said to himself. "Hell, if I lived here, in one of the suites near the front of the hall, I could probably hear the playing from my room. They have to know it's not all _that_ private, so it's no big deal." The excuses sounded much more convincing when Dean wasn't slouching against the wall in the dark, but he clung to the flimsy reasoning as he closed his eyes and floated on the melodies.

It was perfectly fine. It wasn't creepy at all. A tree falling in the forest needs somebody around to hear, even if they never say anything, or what's the point? But, then…

"Hey, you. Past curfew. Who signed you in?"

Dean jumped at the sudden sound of the voice in front of him. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't heard footsteps, and now the hall security guard was frowning impatiently.

"I, uh, it's my brother. He lives here."

"Doesn't mean you get to go wandering around whenever you feel like it. Do you have any idea what time it is? Rules are rules, and if you are here as a guest –"

"I know! I know. We just lost track of time, and…" Dean had grabbed his bag and was trying to head toward the door as swiftly as he could, but the guard was apparently in the mood to lecture. He wasn't being quiet about doing it, either, and Dean noticed with a sinking feeling in his gut that the piano had gone silent behind the door at his back. "I'll go now! I'm really, really sorry, and I swear, it won't –"

"He's with me."

A gravelly voice over his shoulder nearly made Dean climb the air, in his state of nervous agitation. His bag fell from his hands as he pivoted back and to the side, seeing that the lounge doorway was now open and occupied by a dark-haired guy standing in shadow. Dean couldn't see his face clearly, but his posture spoke of weariness and tension. Dean swallowed hard, not at all sure what was happening or what he should say.

"You're his brother?" The guard eyed the newcomer skeptically, unconvinced.

"No." The silence stretched. Apparently, no further explanation was forthcoming. Dean fidgeted slightly, watching the stare-down between guard and student; he figured anything he said would redirect that tension back onto himself, so he clenched his jaw to keep from making any nervous wisecracks. The guard broke first.

"Keep your guests with you. Hall policy," he growled as he dropped his gaze and turned to stalk away. Watching him go, Dean fought the wild urge to sprint away in the opposite direction before the attention could be redirected at him. His rational mind tried to reassure him that, realistically, there was no way to _know_ that he had been sitting and listening; he could have been sneaking out of another student's room, or even just fallen asleep in a common area by accident. But the other guy must have suspected something weird, for him to have vouched for him like that. What was his game?

Drawing himself up, Dean turned and forced a wide grin. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"You owe me more than one, I think. How long were you sitting here listening?"

Well. So much for any hope of escaping with dignity intact. Time for damage control. "I was just on my way out, really. Wasn't lying about my brother – he lives here, and I was hanging with him and his roomies. Heard you playing, and you were good, so I just, uh, slowed down a little. You know, while I was walking out."

"No. These floors creak, and footsteps are loud." The man stepped forward a bit out of the shadows, leveling an sharp, unreadable gaze at him, and the intensity of the suddenly visible blue eyes pierced Dean to his core. In that moment, he would have sworn this guy knew every wrongdoing he'd ever done, back to the time in grade school when he'd convinced his little brother that jumping from the roof was a good way to learn to fly. "You were sitting out here, listening. Why?"

Dean wanted to lie. He wanted desperately to make some excuse that would let him escape those eyes, run out the door, forget tonight had happened. A deeper part of him, though, wanted something different. That part of him wanted to make this right. He didn't want this guy thinking he was a creeper; he felt a strange, powerful need to explain himself. It didn't matter that this was a complete stranger. For unfathomable reasons, Dean felt reluctant to break a connection that the two of them hadn't even begun to build.

"I've been out here about an hour," he confessed in a rush. Then he winced and added, "So far. Tonight."

Blue eyes narrowed as the guy tilted his head in confusion. "Tonight?"

"I've heard you playing before, other times," Dean muttered, blushing. "Sometimes I stop and listen."

Anger flashed across the other man's face, and he rolled his eyes as he threw up his hands and spun away. "Wow. And here I was, thinking I was dealing with moderate levels of creepy. You know, closed doors generally indicate a desire for privacy. If I'd wanted a groupie, I'd have sold tickets." He strode to the piano bench and sat, keeping his back to Dean.

"Hey! C'mon, it wasn't like that!" Embarrassment mingled with rising irritation. "I'm not some kind of stalker! Dude, you play music in a public area of a building where hundreds of people live, and sometimes I happen to be here when you do. That's all. Before tonight, I didn't even know if you were a girl or a guy. I just…" He huffed, closing his eyes in frustration. "I wanted to listen. Shoot me."

"Why?" Now Dean was the one feeling confused, and he glanced up to see the other student eyeing him cautiously. "I mean, not 'Why would I shoot you?' I think we've covered why I might feel so inclined, were I a violent person." A lightning-quick flash in his eyes was the only sign that any humor, however dry, was intended in the deadpanned statement. "Why would you want to listen? Don't you have a radio? Maybe an eight-track player?"

Dean ignored the jab. "Don't play dumb. You know damn well you're good."

"So, what, free concert?"

"No! Just…" He sighed. "Look, I just have trouble getting my brain to shut off sometimes, and, well, the first time I heard you playing, it…it helped. I don't know why, but it did. And nights like tonight, like lots of nights, I know I'm not gonna get any sleep, because…" He jammed the brakes on the outpouring; this guy wasn't interested in his issues. "Well, I'm just not, which sucks. But whatever stream-of-consciousness-type stuff you've got going in here, when you're playing? Feels like it's picking through my messed-up thoughts somehow, making them quiet down for a while. I don't get it, but there you go. Maybe that makes me a psycho groupie, but I'm a nightmare-free groupie, so I'll take it."

When he trailed off, Dean's irritation had evaporated as the awkwardness returned in force. The guy hadn't said a word while Dean confessed, turning away and not even looking at him. Dean knew that it was over, that the guy was going to go out and invest in a keyboard with headphones so he'd never have to deal with weirdo eavesdroppers again. _So much for making it right_ , he thought in resignation. He started to turn toward the doorway to leave.

"Castiel."

Of all the things he might have expected the guy to mutter at him, that was definitely not on the list. "What?"

"Castiel. It's my name." The man turned around on the piano bench and studied him. "If you're going to be my groupie, you should know my name. You know, in case you want to print it on a tee-shirt."

Dean couldn't help snorting a small laugh. "I'd have to get you to spell it for me first." He paused, wondering whether the situation could yet be salvaged. "And I'm Dean. You should know my name, so you can apply for restraining orders. You haven't really made it big until you've had to file for at least one."

They considered each other from across the room, challenge weighing heavy in the air between them. Finally, Castiel nodded. "Maybe I'll hold off on the restraining order pending further investigation. You said you weren't betting on sleep tonight?" Dean nodded cautiously. "Neither was I. It appears we have that in common, then. I'll allow you to make up for eavesdropping by buying me a cup of coffee."

* * *

Castiel didn't know why he'd changed his mind. He had been so furious that one of the few luxuries he allowed himself had been interrupted; these days, he could count on one hand the moments during any given week in which he felt really relaxed, and tonight he had been robbed of one of them. Was it so much to ask that the wee hours of the night be his own to do with as he liked?

But this man, standing there in front of him, describing the clouds of noise blanketing his mind – the very same clouds through which Castiel fought his way every day – somehow managed to break through that fury. It was ludicrous; when Dean described his sleepless nights, hinting at insomnia and nightmares, he had no way of knowing that the entire reason Castiel was awake and sitting at the keys was to quiet his own angry brain. Looking into Dean's eyes, he'd seen a flash of sameness, and he couldn't hold onto his anger.

Not that he was going to let him off the hook easily. They were sitting in a booth in an all-night diner, sipping coffee that tasted as though it had been on the burner since lunchtime, and he was enjoying watching Dean squirm a bit. "It's a simple question, Dean. You've been lurking out there for _weeks_ , by your own admission. You had to have been thinking something about who was playing."

"I'm telling you, I just didn't give it much thought," Dean said ruefully. "I figured you probably weren't a piano major – not that you're not good enough! Shit, that's not what I meant!" Cas had cocked an eyebrow, feigning offense, but he dropped it with a wicked grin when Dean looked like he was starting to panic. "Oh, whatever. I just meant that if you were studying piano for your degree, you'd probably be doing at least a little actual practicing – repeating things over and over, you know."

"I know what you meant," Castiel reassured him.

"Good, okay," Dean said. "Beyond that, I was more into what you were doing than who you were. For all I knew, you were the night janitor, or maybe a resident ghost. Wouldn't have mattered. I'd still have sat there." He shrugged and smiled apologetically.

"And now that you know I'm not?" Castiel was curious about whether seeing his face had changed anything about the perception of his music. His mind helpfully supplied a memory of Jimmy, painstakingly running through the etude drills assigned by their childhood music teacher, and he shoved the image away.

"Well, do I really know you're not? You could still be a very convincing ghost," Dean said with a smirk.

 _No, I'm just carrying one with me._ Castiel grimaced, but Dean didn't notice.

They lingered over the bad coffee, taking occasional subtle glances at the clock hanging above the diner counter. After catching Dean doing so for the third time, Castiel realized that they were doing the same thing: putting off the moment when they would have no choice but to fall into their beds and pray desperately for a dreamless sleep. That realization made his decision for him.

"Dean, I'm not tired yet," Castiel lied. He was, but there was a difference between being tired and being able to do anything about it. "I think I want to go back to the hall and play a bit more tonight. If you'd like, you can join me, but only if you come in out of the hallway." Dean looked a little stunned by the invitation, so Cas eased the moment by joking, "I don't think the poor guard can handle another confrontation tonight."

Dean smiled. "Only because you broke him, Cas. He had that whole lecture thing going, and you robbed him of his moment."

Castiel caught the nickname, and he decided not to say anything about it. Nicknames were for friends, and friendships didn't figure prominently in that short list of luxuries. But, God, he was so lonely, and maybe, so long as he could just keep his focus, it wouldn't harm anything to let himself enjoy having that warm smile directed at him once in a while.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel didn't mind the company as much as he had thought he would. Maybe it was that, as introspective an activity as his piano time was for him, listening in seemed to be an equally personal experience for Dean. He was definitely focusing; Castiel could tell from his posture and facial expressions that every note was being absorbed. Dean never spoke aloud while Castiel played, though. He didn't cough, yawn, shift his body, or do anything else that might have altered the tone of the shared experience into that of a performance for an audience. This was no performance. Castiel mused that, in a strange way, it felt more akin to a benediction. The slightly blasphemous thought would have made him smirk, had he not felt so tired.

It had been a wretched day, and he desperately needed something to take his mind away for a while, just help him stop _thinking_ so much. Ordinarily, running his fingers over the keys and seeing what sounds decided to emerge would have at least removed the sharp edges from his need. He usually made it a point to reflect as little as possible on what he was playing or what notes might come next; he preferred to let his mind wander, allowing muscle memory and daydreams to pull from his subconscious whatever was roiling under the surface. Sometimes he surprised even himself, such as once when a long-forgotten lullaby arose in the middle of a sultry variation on "Round Midnight."

Tonight, however, there were no lullabies coming through, and his hands felt reluctant to act as his surrogate brain. Everything he played carried every bit of the frustration and tension he was fighting to erase, with the effect of causing him to ruminate even harder on how much he felt like breaking things.

Castiel dropped his hands into his lap, rolling his shoulders forward and bowing his head. After a few minutes of breathing slowly and trying to unclench his jaw, he was startled by the small cough from the corner. Looking up quickly, he winced at the look of concern on Dean's face.

"You finishing up early tonight? I mean, it's fine if you need to – if you're tired, you're tired," Dean said, sounding a little hesitant. "If you just want to stop playing, that's cool, too. Didn't seem like it was doing it for you tonight, anyway." He lifted his eyebrow slightly, visibly cautious in his attempt to avoid the unspoken boundary they'd maintained since their first meeting. Neither of them had shared the roots of his troubled sleep or his deeper reasons for being there in the lounge at night. They shared the pretense of simply enjoying the music, no discussion necessary or wanted. Now Dean looked uncomfortable, hinting at his concerns rather than asking questions. Castiel found himself feeling irrationally guilty about causing that worry.

"No, it wasn't, I suppose," he said. "Maybe It's the difference between playing past either generalized irritation or something…a bit less chronic, let's say." Dean looked confused, and Castiel, huffing, gave up attempts to be vague. "Business economics. I've never been so badly tempted to run out of a lecture hall screaming, possibly setting the room on fire as I left."

"Ouch," Dean said, wincing. "That bad, huh?"

"The professor spoke to me after class and suggested that I should save myself the tuition money if I wasn't going to take the course seriously."

"What a dick!" Dean leaned his forearms against his knees, wide-eyed in angry sympathy. "What, like being an asshole is going to help somebody who's having a hard time with a class? Your arson plan sounds justified to me, Cas."

Castiel chuckled humorlessly. "Perhaps I'll save it for a last resort. But he wasn't entirely wrong, in that particular respect. I am _not_ taking the class seriously. I'm being entirely, stupidly petty about it. I am failing not because I cannot grasp the material and do the work, but because _I don't want to_." The admission came through gritted teeth. "This is the most soulless, tedious, miserable class I've ever had to take, and it's just possible that my _bad attitude_ is getting in the way of my _academic success_." In his rising ire, he slipped into a long-broken habit of using his fingers to frame in actual air quotes the phrases his smarmy professor had spoken so condescendingly.

"Okay, just coming at this from the perspective of a total outsider, and everybody's different, but Cas? Doesn't sound like you're not taking it seriously. Sounds like you just plain hate it. I think I'd worry less about academic success and more about not going murderously insane." He shook his head in bewilderment. "Why are you taking something you hate that much? You never told me what major you're doing. Is it a required class?"

"Not only required, but a prerequisite for about half my other required courses. I'm doing business administration." Castiel bit off the words, suddenly feeling chilled. This discussion was heading toward his red zone. He squared his shoulders and spun back around on the bench. Throwing his hands at the keys on autopilot, he was surprised to find himself plunging into a basic scale drill. _Oh, perfect_ , he thought. _Now I've developed a tell, and it's dexterity exercises._

"Okay, I didn't see that coming," Dean muttered. Castiel couldn't muster annoyance that Dean was talking over the music; he was too aggravated with himself at present to spare any ire for anyone else. He also realized it was patently obvious that he was only playing right now so he wouldn't have to talk, the equivalent of shoving his fingers in his ears and chanting "La-la-la." He could hardly blame Dean for brushing past the tactic, walking across the room to stand beside the piano.

"Nothing _wrong_ with business," Dean said with a shrug. "I probably would have pegged you for something a little less practical, I guess, but whatever makes you happy. Just…does it? If half your courses are going to be like this one, only even more so..." He shook his head. "I'm not your advisor, but it doesn't sound to me like an awesome fit."

Castiel refused to meet his gaze, flattening his lips into a line. Abruptly stopping in the middle of a scale, he hid his clenched fists under the keyboard. "You're right, you're not my advisor."

"Cas."

"No, this is not helping," Castiel said, sharper now. He should never have started talking about this. "I was angry because my professor is correct, and I was feeling ashamed." _I have the ability; I'm just being weak._ "Now I'll have to work extra hard to catch up, if it's even possible." _Hours of extra work, cramming for a subject that's nothing I ever wanted to do._ "Selfishness has consequences, and these are mine now."

Dean looked even more baffled. "I don't get how not being a fan of economics translates into selfishness, but…whatever. You choose your own path." When Castiel rolled his eyes, Dean held up his hands in placation. "But I do have a different idea, if you'll hear me out? Is this Thursday afternoon business econ? With Professor Morrison?" Castiel nodded. "I think my little brother, Sam, and one of his roommates might be in your class. Sammy's not a business major, but he's a genius. Want me to introduce you guys? Could do an in-house study group."

Dean looked so hopeful that Castiel would have been hard-pressed to shut him down a second time, no matter how much the idea of making plans to bond with strangers over the loathed subject made him cringe. And perhaps Sam would have his older brother's knack for making Castiel feel a little less hollow. Jimmy would have told him to go. "That would be fine, Dean. Thank you."

* * *

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're feeling more comfortable in your school environment," the grey-haired counselor said, smiling. "Getting the degree is only part of the puzzle for you. I don't think there was ever any real concern about your ability to do that." Dean would have scoffed or rolled his eyes, but Dr. Cain had long since made it clear that self-contempt was not allowed during their sessions. Perhaps the doctor had been confident in Dean's success, but Dean certainly had his doubts.

"I am a little concerned about your worries over your friend, though," Dr. Cain went on, tapping a pen against his chin. "You aren't in his shoes, and he sounds as though he prefers keeping his privacy. His choices are his own. You did a good thing by introducing him to Sam, so why are you still unhappy?"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "What, a guy can't worry about his friends?"

"Certainly, that's normal and healthy. But it perhaps bears examination for you, in light of your own history and the circumstances that brought you here from the beginning." The doctor leaned forward slightly, light-colored eyes peering intently in the way that never failed to make Dean feel completely exposed. After nearly a year of regular visits, though, Dean had adjusted to the feeling. In a way, he appreciated it; having a doctor who could guess what he was feeling made it easier to handle painful discussions.

Sam had been thrilled to make the acquaintance of his fellow classmate, and he was eager to "divide and conquer," as he said. He and Kevin had started meeting with Cas a couple of times a week, and things seemed to be going well. Even so, Dean couldn't shake his unease about the things Cas had said that night in the lounge. Selfishness has consequences? And the bleak expression in Cas's eyes had been painful to see.

"We've spent a lot of time exploring your tendencies to take on other people's burdens," Dr. Cain was saying. "You're a very caring person, which is a positive attribute. The danger, as you know, rises when you begin sacrificing your own needs to help others, or when you start judging your own self-worth on whether you are able to 'fix' someone – someone who might not even need fixing." With a shrewd look, the doctor added, "You know you can't rescue everyone, Dean."

"I know." This was the sticking point; nearly every bad decision he'd made or heartbreak he'd ever suffered came down to that. Dean knew he had come a long way from being the teenager who had nearly chosen to drop out of high school to work and care for his sick dad, but it had been a rocky path. He'd nearly been broken completely by that lesson, quite literally, when he had held his fellow soldier and friend in his arms and watched the light die from his eyes for the last time. _I couldn't save him, but other people are still working to save me._ "I'm not trying to fix Cas, I promise."

"Good," Dr. Cain said. "Just be his friend. You're a good friend to have."

Leaving the counselor's office, Dean zipped his jacket to his chin as the late fall wind bit through the fabric. He usually left his doctor feeling more contemplative that when he had arrived. It was validating to hear that the nightmares triggered by his insensitive history professor were not something he should be trying to ignore; the doctor had given him suggestions for how to approach the teacher, explain what was happening, and request a bit of "extra sensitivity." Dean was grateful for the stock phrases and literature provided by the office; he didn't think he could have delivered that request with a straight face otherwise.

After stopping by the grocery and grabbing an armload of whatever snacks looked furthest removed from nature, he drove back over to Sam's dorm, ready to feed the starving masses. "Remembered the Red Vines this time," he joked as he dropped the payload on the floor.

"And that's why we let you keep coming here," Ash said, grinning and grabbing for a bag. Everyone else rose from their positions on the floor, stretching and groaning. Cas had been glaring fiercely at the mess of papers surrounding him when Dean entered, but his brow smoothed a bit when he lifted his eyes and met Dean's.

"Our savior bearing sugar," he said dryly. "We may yet survive, thanks to you."

"Anytime, Cas," Dean said with a smile. "Just doing what I can."


End file.
